Seventy one years ago today the German Blitzkrieg started to roll into Poland. World War II had started. Just thought I'd point that out.
Yesterday my agent sent me the music I need to learn for the Garbo Talks project in Long Beach. I'll need to print that out and get started on it today. He also confirmed my audition for ANNIE at Music Theatre West, also in Long Beach. I told him unless the actual Daddy Warbucks showed up for the auditions, I can't imagine a role more suited to me at this particular point in my career. Physically and vocally the role is perfect for me. Plus it's a great Equity Contract. I have until September 13 to learn the Garbo Talks music and the ANNIE audition is the following day. Good.
I have never considered myself a musical theater performer even though I've done fifty or sixty musicals throughout my career. My favorite role (did it three times) is probably Arthur in Camelot. A great role for an actor who sings. Although the play itself is really not all that good. Too long and too little to do for the ensemble. It's basically a three person show - Arthur, Lancelot and Guinevere. It is not, however, my favorite musical. That would be Sunday in the Park with George.
I have done a bunch of the old musical battle wagons over the years - Camelot, The Music Man, South Pacific, Carousel, Gypsy, West Side Story (Shrank, in case you're wondering), Hello Dolly, Funny Girl, Guys and Dolls, Big River, 1776, Two by Two...many others. In fact, Guys and Dolls, which I've done twice, was one of the more interesting ones, because the first time I did it I found myself in the unique position of being able to do both Sky (the first half of the run) and then Nathan. I much preferred doing Nathan as Sky is a thankless role. 1776 was fun, too. I did it twice as well, the first time as Lee and the second as Adams. I remember that one fondly not so much for the show itself as the cast. Both productions were full of fun actors.
But Sunday in the Park with George has always towered over the others. It is a remarkable piece of writing from both Sondhem and Lapine. Every time I did it and every time I listen to it, I hear something different.
I've done another Sondheim piece, too - Company. That was my first introduction to the genius of Mr. Sondheim. I'd love to take a shot at Sweeny Todd or Assassins someday.
Anyway, the point is, even though I've done a ton of musicals over the years, I've never really considered myself that kind of performer. One of the reasons for that, I think, is because a lot of my close friends are REAL singers...REAL musicians. I'm a pretender when it comes to that stuff. Jim Barbour, one of my best buds, is a real musical theater performer. Jim and I have done a lot of work together back in the day. He was good when he was younger...now he's astonishing. I honestly think Jimmy may have one of the five or six finest musical theater voices in the country right now. I recently saw him do the lead in Nightmare Alley at The Geffen out here in L.A. The show was mediocre at best. But Jim was incredible. His voice is a force of nature.
I've also been fortunate enough to do a few shows with the amazing Kyle Puccia. Again, here's a guy who has a voice that actually stops me in my tracks. Kyle did the lead in one of the Big River's I've had the chance to do (I did it three times)...the first time I heard him sing the role of Huck Finn, honest to God, I was struck dumb. Now, THAT is a singer. Jim is a singer. Me? I'm a guy that on his best day can carry a tune. It's an uncomfortable truth I've learned to live with. When I was first starting out in the business, I really thought I had a good voice, I thought I had a crack at being a major musical theater talent. But as I began to move up in the business, getting higher quality work, I realized how deluded I had been. This is not false modesty. It is a way of saying how important it is in this business to honestly assess one's own talent.
Academia is mostly to blame for this. One of the things that bothers me the most (for the constant, Gentle Reader of this blog, you'll know what I'm talking about) in the biz. Actors seem unable, for whatever reason, to honestly assess their own worth. It is essential to know what one's forte' is in this wacky world of show business. For example, I also know that even though I love Shakespeare, adore watching him, love his writing above all other, study it relentlessly, I am, quite frankly, really not very good with the language. Like musical theater, I can recognize great Shakespearean work when I see it - Kevin Kline, Laurence Olivier, Michael Moriarty, John Geilgud, Ralph Richardson, Judi Dench, Ian McKellan, etc. - I also know that it is not what I, personally, do best. Years ago, I had the wonderful opportunity of doing Brutus in Julius Caesar in NY for a long run. I loved every second of it. But I wasn't really that good at it.
It is so terribly important for an actor to know what he does well and what he doesn't. I don't know why actors, deep into their careers sometimes, have no idea that they're not very good at something. Ego alone? I honestly don't know. But to trudge through years of this business without a truthful assessment of one's own worth is just heartbreaking, it would seem. And yet, I see it all the time. Is the desire to be on stage so overwhelmingly massive that one just overlooks the fact that one might not be so good at one particular element of it? Again, I don't know. It seems to be a dangerous kind of denial.
Know what you're good at. Know what you're not good at. If you're not sure, ask someone you trust.
When I first started studying with the brilliant Michael Moriarty, one of the things I did was bring in audition monologue after audition monologue for him to criticize. And he was always spot on and incredibly insightful. Finally, one day, he asked me to bring in some Shakespeare. So I found the "Edmond the Bastard" speech form King Lear and worked on it. After a couple of weeks I brought it to class. I did my very best with it. When I finished, there was a long, somewhat ominous pause. Michael then said, "You're an extraordinary actor. One of my favorites, in fact. But Shakespeare may not be your cup of tea. That's nothing to be ashamed of. It's just a fact." At the time I was devastated. Now I'm eternally grateful.
And that's the way it should work.
See you tomorrow.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Full of Sound and Fury and Signifying Nothing...
I have read that it is impossible to dream one's own death. Because we have nothing to compare it to, no reference. We dream that we fall off a tall building and awake suddenly as we plummet to the earth. Why? Because the brain has no conception of what might happen when we hit the ground. I know I certainly can't envision it, get my mind around it.
Of course, the religious folk have all sorts of fancy and euphoric pictures of such a thing. I envy them on one hand and scoff on the other. I have actually heard sermons, back in my days as a drug and alcohol counselor with the nefarious Salvation Army, about sitting on clouds, listening to harps, strolling down streets of gold, playing Scrabble with Jesus, whatever. Of course, those people are biblical literalists. Mind-boggling as that may seem.
In any event, I have a couple of close friends at the moment dealing with the painful and inevitable death of their parents. One is literally sitting beside his mother on her deathbed and the other is navigating the red tape of trying to get his mom in a nursing home. I can't imagine the weight either of them is carrying. The best I can do is offer moral support. It seems hardly enough.
My own mother died quickly and violently in a boat accident twenty three years ago. I was spared her decline. At the same time, not being prepared for something so tragic, it took me nearly ten years to adjust to the circumstances of her death. Ten long, self-destructive years.
About a year ago I read an article on Woody Allen in GQ or Time or one of those magazines. In it, Allen said he worked not to create art, not to try and best his last film, not to make another brilliant film, but rather to keep his mind occupied so that he wouldn't dwell on the fact that he is "hurtling toward the void." He said, "If any of us knew how quickly and inevitably we were all charging toward nothingness, we would all be too frightened to even get out of bed everyday." Wow.
Allen is an avowed atheist. I can certainly understand his overwhelming fear. Plus he's in his seventies and knows that time is not on his side. That interview has stuck with me. There are much smarter people than myself that have pondered the mysteries of death. Anything I might add to the subject would be sophomoric at best. Nonetheless, any thinking person has to muse on it now and again. It's natural to do so, I think. It separates us from the beasts, as Karl Rogers wrote, this musing over our demise. Hemingway was obsessed with it in his own way. So was Faulkner. Hemingway all but predicted his own suicide, in fact. He wrote of living quickly and boldly as a lion in the wild, dying young and violently in the midst of natural selection, having lived a free and eventful life, no regrets, rather than dying old and passive as a lion captured and pacing in a cage in a zoo.
Teddy Roosevelt spoke of striving to be "the man in the arena," demanding every ounce of excitement life could offer, striving to do great things, even impossible things, rather than living in the shadows of the great, the ambitious, and dying without accomplishment or challenge.
It's easy to write or speak of such a thing. But I would think the tune changes as the inevitable end approaches. Shakespeare calls death, "the great, undiscovered country." That's as good a description as I can think of. He wrote of death eloquently and reverentially, more so than anyone I can think of, in fact.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
The last line, especially, I find haunting. "Signifying nothing." Puts things in perspective, alarmingly so, in fact. Is that why I write? To try and counter that truism? I don't know. To leave a legacy beyond simple memory? Is this the basis of procreation itself? The instinct, paternal and maternal, to leave something of ourselves? I don't know. As I said, a lot smarter people than I have wrestled this demon.
Years ago I was driving from New York City to Florida for a gig. I used to work in Florida a lot back in those days and the drive was not a new one. In South Carolina, late at night, I crested a small hill and was horrified to see a car still spinning from a terrible crash that had obviously happened only moments before. I was the first on the scene. One car was on its back, the wheels still spinning. The other finally came to a rest some fifty yards off in a field. It was a moonless, pitch black night and I pulled my car up in such a manner so that the headlights shone on the crumpled car in the field. The mind works unbelievable fast at times like this. I remember sitting in the car for just a split second before getting out to see if I could help. In that split second I calmly thought of what my reaction was going to be if I saw a dead body. Odd thought, but there you have it. I ran to the crushed car in the field first. No one was in it. I looked around and saw a lump off in the distance. I knew it was a person. I trotted over there and, sure enough, the guy was dead. His eyes were open, staring, clearly gone. I couldn't see anyone else. So I ran to the car that was on its back. That guy was still in the car and hurt but alive. This was before cell phones, remember, so I couldn't just call 911. Fortunately, a trucker with a CB was pulling over at about the same time and he had already radioed the incident in. We simply had to wait. While doing so, I wandered back to the dead guy in the field. I looked at him for a long time. A long time. Surprisingly, the State Police were there in just a few minutes and took charge. I was ushered back to my car. Asked about what I knew. Waited a while longer. And eventually was told to just go on. Through the years I have often thought of that dead guy laying there in that field. He was about fifty, maybe older. Balding. Some cuts on his face and head, but not grossly so. Eyes open. Looking straight into the stars on that clear night. I remember wondering if he had a wife. If he had kids. If he had a good life. And now it was all, in an instant, gone and irrevocably changed for whoever knew him. A billion, trillion images and memories and accomplishments disappeared in an instant. So this is it, I thought. This is what happens to us.
I have never spoken or written about that incident my entire life until just now. It somehow seemed more private than anything I can think of. Staring at that dead man was something so personal, I felt, that to tell someone about it seemed unspeakably trivial.
"Hurtling toward the void." A couple of decades later when I read that line from Woody Allen's interview I immediately was standing in that field again and looking at that man.
I have often tried to imagine what my own mother's last thoughts were before the accident. I can't.
My heart aches for my two friends dealing with the death and decline of their own parents. It is, I suppose, part of a life cycle too sad and hopeless to even contemplate. Some days, when I do think back to that anonymous man in the field, with his glassy eyes staring at the sky, it is, in fact, hard to get out of bed and go about the myriad mundanities that make up my life. And I think, 'that guy did it. Every day up until his car crashed into that other car, he got up and made coffee and brushed his teeth and read the paper and kissed his wife and maybe did a little fishing on the weekends and maybe laughed at a dumb joke and maybe bought some new sneakers and watched TV and followed the local news and had his in-laws over for dinner. And after all that, he ended up tossed and bloody in a weedy field in South Carolina and none of it counted for anything.'
We put a brave and hopeful face on this 'hurtling toward the void' business. To do otherwise would simply be too depressing. Or we don't contemplate it at all. We steadfastly refuse to let something so crippling into our daily thoughts. That's probably for the best.
See you tomorrow.
Of course, the religious folk have all sorts of fancy and euphoric pictures of such a thing. I envy them on one hand and scoff on the other. I have actually heard sermons, back in my days as a drug and alcohol counselor with the nefarious Salvation Army, about sitting on clouds, listening to harps, strolling down streets of gold, playing Scrabble with Jesus, whatever. Of course, those people are biblical literalists. Mind-boggling as that may seem.
In any event, I have a couple of close friends at the moment dealing with the painful and inevitable death of their parents. One is literally sitting beside his mother on her deathbed and the other is navigating the red tape of trying to get his mom in a nursing home. I can't imagine the weight either of them is carrying. The best I can do is offer moral support. It seems hardly enough.
My own mother died quickly and violently in a boat accident twenty three years ago. I was spared her decline. At the same time, not being prepared for something so tragic, it took me nearly ten years to adjust to the circumstances of her death. Ten long, self-destructive years.
About a year ago I read an article on Woody Allen in GQ or Time or one of those magazines. In it, Allen said he worked not to create art, not to try and best his last film, not to make another brilliant film, but rather to keep his mind occupied so that he wouldn't dwell on the fact that he is "hurtling toward the void." He said, "If any of us knew how quickly and inevitably we were all charging toward nothingness, we would all be too frightened to even get out of bed everyday." Wow.
Allen is an avowed atheist. I can certainly understand his overwhelming fear. Plus he's in his seventies and knows that time is not on his side. That interview has stuck with me. There are much smarter people than myself that have pondered the mysteries of death. Anything I might add to the subject would be sophomoric at best. Nonetheless, any thinking person has to muse on it now and again. It's natural to do so, I think. It separates us from the beasts, as Karl Rogers wrote, this musing over our demise. Hemingway was obsessed with it in his own way. So was Faulkner. Hemingway all but predicted his own suicide, in fact. He wrote of living quickly and boldly as a lion in the wild, dying young and violently in the midst of natural selection, having lived a free and eventful life, no regrets, rather than dying old and passive as a lion captured and pacing in a cage in a zoo.
Teddy Roosevelt spoke of striving to be "the man in the arena," demanding every ounce of excitement life could offer, striving to do great things, even impossible things, rather than living in the shadows of the great, the ambitious, and dying without accomplishment or challenge.
It's easy to write or speak of such a thing. But I would think the tune changes as the inevitable end approaches. Shakespeare calls death, "the great, undiscovered country." That's as good a description as I can think of. He wrote of death eloquently and reverentially, more so than anyone I can think of, in fact.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
The last line, especially, I find haunting. "Signifying nothing." Puts things in perspective, alarmingly so, in fact. Is that why I write? To try and counter that truism? I don't know. To leave a legacy beyond simple memory? Is this the basis of procreation itself? The instinct, paternal and maternal, to leave something of ourselves? I don't know. As I said, a lot smarter people than I have wrestled this demon.
Years ago I was driving from New York City to Florida for a gig. I used to work in Florida a lot back in those days and the drive was not a new one. In South Carolina, late at night, I crested a small hill and was horrified to see a car still spinning from a terrible crash that had obviously happened only moments before. I was the first on the scene. One car was on its back, the wheels still spinning. The other finally came to a rest some fifty yards off in a field. It was a moonless, pitch black night and I pulled my car up in such a manner so that the headlights shone on the crumpled car in the field. The mind works unbelievable fast at times like this. I remember sitting in the car for just a split second before getting out to see if I could help. In that split second I calmly thought of what my reaction was going to be if I saw a dead body. Odd thought, but there you have it. I ran to the crushed car in the field first. No one was in it. I looked around and saw a lump off in the distance. I knew it was a person. I trotted over there and, sure enough, the guy was dead. His eyes were open, staring, clearly gone. I couldn't see anyone else. So I ran to the car that was on its back. That guy was still in the car and hurt but alive. This was before cell phones, remember, so I couldn't just call 911. Fortunately, a trucker with a CB was pulling over at about the same time and he had already radioed the incident in. We simply had to wait. While doing so, I wandered back to the dead guy in the field. I looked at him for a long time. A long time. Surprisingly, the State Police were there in just a few minutes and took charge. I was ushered back to my car. Asked about what I knew. Waited a while longer. And eventually was told to just go on. Through the years I have often thought of that dead guy laying there in that field. He was about fifty, maybe older. Balding. Some cuts on his face and head, but not grossly so. Eyes open. Looking straight into the stars on that clear night. I remember wondering if he had a wife. If he had kids. If he had a good life. And now it was all, in an instant, gone and irrevocably changed for whoever knew him. A billion, trillion images and memories and accomplishments disappeared in an instant. So this is it, I thought. This is what happens to us.
I have never spoken or written about that incident my entire life until just now. It somehow seemed more private than anything I can think of. Staring at that dead man was something so personal, I felt, that to tell someone about it seemed unspeakably trivial.
"Hurtling toward the void." A couple of decades later when I read that line from Woody Allen's interview I immediately was standing in that field again and looking at that man.
I have often tried to imagine what my own mother's last thoughts were before the accident. I can't.
My heart aches for my two friends dealing with the death and decline of their own parents. It is, I suppose, part of a life cycle too sad and hopeless to even contemplate. Some days, when I do think back to that anonymous man in the field, with his glassy eyes staring at the sky, it is, in fact, hard to get out of bed and go about the myriad mundanities that make up my life. And I think, 'that guy did it. Every day up until his car crashed into that other car, he got up and made coffee and brushed his teeth and read the paper and kissed his wife and maybe did a little fishing on the weekends and maybe laughed at a dumb joke and maybe bought some new sneakers and watched TV and followed the local news and had his in-laws over for dinner. And after all that, he ended up tossed and bloody in a weedy field in South Carolina and none of it counted for anything.'
We put a brave and hopeful face on this 'hurtling toward the void' business. To do otherwise would simply be too depressing. Or we don't contemplate it at all. We steadfastly refuse to let something so crippling into our daily thoughts. That's probably for the best.
See you tomorrow.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
"Nick Nolte Interviews Nick Nolte" on The Sundance Channel
I watched an utterly fascinating film on The Sundance Channel yesterday. It was called "NIck Nolte Interviews Nick Nolte" and it was exactly that. At first glance it appears to be a vanity project, much in the same way "Looking for Richard" is for Al Pacino. But as I kept watching I realized it was something else altogether. It is an artistic exorcism of sorts. Nolte, at the age of 67 (it was made in 08), rationalizing some of his behavior and artistic choices over a fairly distinguished career. There are some fine insights, I must say, and some of them really struck a chord. He addresses his alcoholism, his sometimes questionable attitudes about his on-set behavior, his ideas of 'good work' as opposed to bad work and finally, his fascination with Marlon Brando. Why Nolte would feel compelled to do it at all is interesting. He's always been a rather private actor, marching to the beat of his own drummer, openly criticizing Hollywood sometimes.
I have always liked Nolte as an actor. I've never been knocked out by his work, although his stuff in "Q and A" and even Streisand's much maligned "Prince of Tides," is certainly watchable. The thing about Nick Nolte is he has never surprised me as an actor. It's the one thing above all else that he clearly aspired to do, too; surprise people, be unpredictable. And clearly, as the film unfolds, this is his ultimate goal as an artist. Nonetheless, it has eluded him. As I watched, I realized this comes from his Method training, not so much from Nolte himself. The Method, as I've outlined several times in this blog, encourages lowest common denominator acting. It does not allow for eccentricity. It fails to take into account the most fascinating part of the human character: whim. Nolte is an acolyte for the Method. So it is not really in him to be unpredictable. He is solid, infinitely believable, honest, thoughtful, subtextual, committed, in the moment, fun and funny, but ultimately predictable as an actor. And yet he holds the work of Brando, as do so many others, up as an example of genius. He is right to do so. The problem is, he doesn't see that Brando long ago abandoned the tenants of the Method and played straight into the one truly magical gift of the human spirit: whim and whimsy. And not only that, Brando acted upon it every chance he got. Brando was never really, honestly, down-deep interested in absolute truth on stage. He was far more interested in absolute fascination. He instinctively understood that honesty is easy. Especially for someone as gifted as an actor as he was, but honesty was and is only the first step. No one pays to see honesty. Lots of people can do that. Just attend any church anywhere for free on any given Sunday. Honest acting is a dime a dozen acting. But eccentricity stemming from the very fact of being human...well, that's something entirely different. The Method disdains ambiguity. The very lifeblood of the Method solidly rests on the rock hard agenda of "making a choice," picking a feeling, pinpointing an emotion, the magic, "if", play it this way, not that, let the audience know what you're thinking at all times. Brando, in his bottomless grasp of human behavior, inherently understood that that makes for good scenework, maybe, but dull characterization. Being honest and making a choice came to Brando as easily as lacing one's shoes does to someone else. Go back and look at "The Men," his very first film. It is often hailed today as a forgotten gem. Mostly from Method actors. Brando abhorred himself in that. Thought he was boring. He was 24 years old. He learned fast, however. That's why he's Brando. His next time at bat was "Streetcar Named Desire" and his Stanley Kowalski in that film forever changed the face of acting. I watched the film again just a few months ago. It was then, and remains today, one of the most unpredictable, ambiguous, eccentric performance in all of filmdom. It is the kind of work Nick Nolte has spent forty years trying to emulate. It is the difference between Brando, a brilliant actor, and Nolte, a very good actor.
To his credit, Nolte is not alone in chasing Brando's countless examples. Any truly fine actor (and there are fewer than one might think - in a career of thirty years as a professional actor, I have met maybe...MAYBE five or six) can see that Brando's work towers over the usual A to B to C work of the pedestrian yet well-meaning Plebean artist of the stage. Now, of course, most young actors have no idea who he even was, outside the name recognition. While teaching for many years in Chicago I finally had to put together a reel of Brando moments so that my students might finally understand some of the references I was making. In one instance I remember a promising young actor saying, "That's fucking awesome, man. Who IS that" as he watched Brando accuse Steiger of ruining his career in the backseat of a car in "On the Waterfront."
I see it over and over and over. Actors steeped in the teachings of Sandy Meisner or Uta Hagen or Lee Strasberg steadfastly refusing to embrace the most fascinating part of the human condition - unpredictability. They have been taught, to admittedly over generalize here, to play a sad line sad and a happy line happy. It is a dead end, artistically speaking, allowing no room for simple whim. Look at Brando's work in the "tango" scene in "Last Tango in Paris," arguably the finest performance I have ever seen on film. Watch how he veers from hopelessness to giddiness to lust to full-out comedy to pathos and back again to hopelessness. Watch how, in the same film, he turns his anger at his ex-wife in the coffin to a full-blown accusation of God himself. Watch how he takes the simple action of turning a light on and off while thinking into a moment of unspeakable private angst. He has, in the words of George C. Scott, gone beyond acting and into the realm of impressionism.
Nolte is not to be blamed for his inability to emulate Brando and in effect capture lightning in a bottle. Just as countless other actors are not to be blamed for seeing Brando's brilliance but being unable to reproduce Brando's brilliance. In other words, Nolte and thousands of other actors, have been taught math. Brando is working with quantum physics.
Honesty on stage, on screen, is easy. Good actors can do it for the exact reason they ARE good actors. That's what they do. They've realized early in their lives that it IS easy. That's why they've chosen the incredibly difficult path in life of being a professional actor. Other people can't do this. Ninety nine point nine, nine, nine, nine, nine percent of the world CAN'T do it. It's a mystery to them. But even these actors, the ones with "the gift" of honesty, can't step into the new, undiscovered country of acting when they've been taught not to take that chance. The very essence of Method work disallows unpredictability. Nolte has never been able to see past those erred teachings. Brando discarded them as easily as Picasso discarded realism. Therin lies the uncomfortable truth of "Nick Nolte interviews Nick Nolte." Understanding genuis is not the same as being a genius.
See you tomorrow.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Imitating Orson Welles...
The auditions keep coming fast and furious, thank god. One a day, minimum. Love that. Gotta love agents for that reason alone.
Yesterday, I read for The Colony Theater's upcoming production of Bell, Book and Candle as I mentioned in my earlier post. It was a good read, I think, and unless the role is already cast (sometimes it is) I think there will probably be a call back at the very least. It's a full Equity contract, of course, but not a great one, financially speaking. Nonetheless it's a nine week contract and covers health and pension. Always good to have that.
I actually had some fun with this one. More than I expected. I didn't nail it until about two hours before the audition. I always like to go into an audition situation with a "hook." Something I can hang my hat on. Something I can keep firmly in the forefront of my mind while auditioning. Sometimes I can't find it and I just fly by the seat of my pants. Those are the tricky auditions because my confidence is tested. Yesterday was not one of those times.
The breakdowns included these words in the description, "a shambling, sloppy alcoholic...very intelligent...good heart." As I've said before, I like to go in with an image in mind. For this particular role I kept hearing, for some reason, a British accent. Now, there's absolutely nothing in the script to indicate that. Nonetheless, I kept hearing it. Maybe it was the cadence in the script for this character. But it didn't fit. So I didn't want to add something that wasn't there. Finally, about two hours before I left for the read, I zeroed in on the word "shambling."
Years ago I had an English professor, Contemporary American Short Story. He was a big bear of a guy that sort of lumbered about while speaking in this booming yet halting cadence. He sounded like I always thought Hemingway should've sounded (now I know Hemingway had kind of a high, squeeky voice...but at the time, I didn't know that). So I started, here in the privacy of my office, imitating him. The professor, that is. And then I started saying the lines in that voice. Suddenly, voila', there it was. I had it. I added a bit of befuddled drink to my thought pattern (not really a stretch for me) and out came this rhythm and voice I liked a lot.
The audition itself was at The Colony Theater in one of the rehearsal rooms upstairs. I love that theater. Angie and I had seen Jimmy Barbour do his Christmas Concert (wonderful) there last December and I remember remarking to her about my wanting to work on that stage someday.
There were only three of us waiting to audition. Myself and two young, leading men types. They were very nervous and kept pacing about and mouthing the words to their scenes. I never do that. I hate looking nervous at auditions. Even if I am nervous. I prefer to set the text aside and appear outwardly calm. There were only three of us because this was agent submission only. Which meant no cattle calls. Finally, after a half hour or so I was called in and began reading opposite a young lady sitting in a chair saying all the other parts and lines. I shut my eyes for a second and visualized this professor I'd had many years ago and started in. It was a long scene, two full pages, and they didn't interrupt. About halfway through a part of my brain suddenly realized I was doing a fairly decent impression of Orson Welles. And what's more, it fit.
Now, I have no idea whatsoever if the guys on the other side of the table liked what I did. After it was over it was the usual, "Good job, thank you, we'll call you, goodbye." But that doesn't matter. I knew I'd nailed it. After about 10,000 auditions over a lifetime one starts to get a sixth sense about these things. So unless they've already got someone in mind, which is entirely possible, I expect a call back.
Today I've downloaded a huge chunk of dialogue for an industrial to be shot in Virginia in a few weeks. I'm not memorizing it (as if I could) but simply familiarizing myself with it. It's a major chunk of money or otherwise I'd never do it. Plus a few days in Virginia, travel, lodging, per diem, etc. That's today at noon in Culver City.
Tomorrow I've got an interesting one, too. It's a one day shoot of a new music video to be shot in Burbank. I'm playing a "baker," gruff and tough-looking, who goes about his morning routine in the kitchen and suddenly looks up and sings "in an angelic voice." Naturally, I'll be lip-syncing. That's at four-thirty, but it's not far away from our house.
No idea what's in store next week audition-wise but I hope this pace continues.
Angie and I found a drive-in theater about twenty miles from us. An actual, honest-to-god drive-in theater. I have a buddy in Colorado and now and then he takes his family to a drive-in there. I'm green with envy. So finally I just went online and found one close to me. Turns out it's really close and one of the only ones still open in Southern California. So Angie contacted our friends Don and Donna and tomorrow night we're double-dating at the drive-in. I'm very excited. I haven't been to a drive-in theatre in thirty years. I'm thinking about getting in the trunk and sneaking in just for nostalgia's sake.
I'm having a wonderful time these days. "For all it's drudgery and sham, it's still a beautiful world. Strive to be happy." Those are two of the last lines from one of my very favorite pieces of writing called Desiderada. It IS a beautiful world. And we can strive to be happy. Even when our brain is crowded with memories of unhappiness, it's still possible to fit a moment of happiness in there somewhere. One thing about Angela...it's almost impossible to stay unhappy around her for too long. She simply won't allow it. Damn woman.
See you tomorrow.
Yesterday, I read for The Colony Theater's upcoming production of Bell, Book and Candle as I mentioned in my earlier post. It was a good read, I think, and unless the role is already cast (sometimes it is) I think there will probably be a call back at the very least. It's a full Equity contract, of course, but not a great one, financially speaking. Nonetheless it's a nine week contract and covers health and pension. Always good to have that.
I actually had some fun with this one. More than I expected. I didn't nail it until about two hours before the audition. I always like to go into an audition situation with a "hook." Something I can hang my hat on. Something I can keep firmly in the forefront of my mind while auditioning. Sometimes I can't find it and I just fly by the seat of my pants. Those are the tricky auditions because my confidence is tested. Yesterday was not one of those times.
The breakdowns included these words in the description, "a shambling, sloppy alcoholic...very intelligent...good heart." As I've said before, I like to go in with an image in mind. For this particular role I kept hearing, for some reason, a British accent. Now, there's absolutely nothing in the script to indicate that. Nonetheless, I kept hearing it. Maybe it was the cadence in the script for this character. But it didn't fit. So I didn't want to add something that wasn't there. Finally, about two hours before I left for the read, I zeroed in on the word "shambling."
Years ago I had an English professor, Contemporary American Short Story. He was a big bear of a guy that sort of lumbered about while speaking in this booming yet halting cadence. He sounded like I always thought Hemingway should've sounded (now I know Hemingway had kind of a high, squeeky voice...but at the time, I didn't know that). So I started, here in the privacy of my office, imitating him. The professor, that is. And then I started saying the lines in that voice. Suddenly, voila', there it was. I had it. I added a bit of befuddled drink to my thought pattern (not really a stretch for me) and out came this rhythm and voice I liked a lot.
The audition itself was at The Colony Theater in one of the rehearsal rooms upstairs. I love that theater. Angie and I had seen Jimmy Barbour do his Christmas Concert (wonderful) there last December and I remember remarking to her about my wanting to work on that stage someday.
There were only three of us waiting to audition. Myself and two young, leading men types. They were very nervous and kept pacing about and mouthing the words to their scenes. I never do that. I hate looking nervous at auditions. Even if I am nervous. I prefer to set the text aside and appear outwardly calm. There were only three of us because this was agent submission only. Which meant no cattle calls. Finally, after a half hour or so I was called in and began reading opposite a young lady sitting in a chair saying all the other parts and lines. I shut my eyes for a second and visualized this professor I'd had many years ago and started in. It was a long scene, two full pages, and they didn't interrupt. About halfway through a part of my brain suddenly realized I was doing a fairly decent impression of Orson Welles. And what's more, it fit.
Now, I have no idea whatsoever if the guys on the other side of the table liked what I did. After it was over it was the usual, "Good job, thank you, we'll call you, goodbye." But that doesn't matter. I knew I'd nailed it. After about 10,000 auditions over a lifetime one starts to get a sixth sense about these things. So unless they've already got someone in mind, which is entirely possible, I expect a call back.
Today I've downloaded a huge chunk of dialogue for an industrial to be shot in Virginia in a few weeks. I'm not memorizing it (as if I could) but simply familiarizing myself with it. It's a major chunk of money or otherwise I'd never do it. Plus a few days in Virginia, travel, lodging, per diem, etc. That's today at noon in Culver City.
Tomorrow I've got an interesting one, too. It's a one day shoot of a new music video to be shot in Burbank. I'm playing a "baker," gruff and tough-looking, who goes about his morning routine in the kitchen and suddenly looks up and sings "in an angelic voice." Naturally, I'll be lip-syncing. That's at four-thirty, but it's not far away from our house.
No idea what's in store next week audition-wise but I hope this pace continues.
Angie and I found a drive-in theater about twenty miles from us. An actual, honest-to-god drive-in theater. I have a buddy in Colorado and now and then he takes his family to a drive-in there. I'm green with envy. So finally I just went online and found one close to me. Turns out it's really close and one of the only ones still open in Southern California. So Angie contacted our friends Don and Donna and tomorrow night we're double-dating at the drive-in. I'm very excited. I haven't been to a drive-in theatre in thirty years. I'm thinking about getting in the trunk and sneaking in just for nostalgia's sake.
I'm having a wonderful time these days. "For all it's drudgery and sham, it's still a beautiful world. Strive to be happy." Those are two of the last lines from one of my very favorite pieces of writing called Desiderada. It IS a beautiful world. And we can strive to be happy. Even when our brain is crowded with memories of unhappiness, it's still possible to fit a moment of happiness in there somewhere. One thing about Angela...it's almost impossible to stay unhappy around her for too long. She simply won't allow it. Damn woman.
See you tomorrow.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Reading Ibsen for Joe Papp...
My agent called yesterday to tell me I'm called back for "Garbo Talks" at ITC. Good. He also sent me the sides I'll be expected to have somewhat down. This is all fairly standard procedure. He also sent me the sides for "Bell, Book and Candle" which I'll be doing today for The Colony production.
A couple of things regarding all this.
First, the role I'm up for in "Garbo Talks" has a Swedish accent. Now, I've always had a pretty good ear. That is to say, dialects and accents have always come fairly easily to me. Some easier than others. God knows I've done a ton over the years. Scottish, for some odd reason, has always been tough for me. Australian, too. Don't know why. Scottish always ends up sounding like Mr. Scott from Star Trek and Australian always drifts toward Cockney if I'm not careful. The sides for Garbo say very clearly, "MUST have Swedish accent." Hm. Okay.
I must confess, I've never attempted a legit Swedish accent before. Just playing around with it from time to time has always produced something akin to The Swedish Chef on The Muppets. That'll never do, of course. I've read over the sides and clearly the script is, if not exactly naturalistic, certainly realistic. So next I decided to scout around on U Tube for something. I found several clips that might help. One was an extended clip of a guy, a ranger of sorts, talking to a group of rafters...he's a real Swede with an actual Swedish accent. I watched it a few times and something clicked in my brain. And then I realized what it was...the guy sounds exactly like Merryl Streep in Out of Africa. Of course, in that movie Streep is playing a Dane. Nonetheless, there it was. Unfortunately, I don't know any real Swedes so my only recourse is to rent Out of Africa and listen to Streep over and over. Not the best of solutions but better than nothing. Apparently the Danish accent and the Swedish accent are similar enough to help me out here. So today, I Netflix Out of Africa.
The next thing I did to prepare for "Bell, Book and Candle" today was to google all the reviews I could find of various productions of the piece around the country. This is always helpful to me, especially if I don't know the play, which is the case this time. I found a whole bunch of notices for the play from as far away as Dublin to a community theatre production in a small town in Texas ("The performances were really good. The set was really good. The direction was really good."). The role I'm being considered for is Redlitch...the "alcoholic writer" who originally suspects the main character of being a witch, apparently. The press packet for some of the productions say the television show "Bewitched" was loosely inspired by the play. Don't know if that's true or not, but it sounds about right. What I did find out from reading all of the different reviews is that Redlitch is clearly the comic foil of the piece. Obviously a scene-stealing role. Good. I have the sides to the play already and now I just have to figure out a way to do it as an alcoholic and not a drunk. Big difference, I think. I don't think the playwright had a Foster Brooks kind of thing in mind. That would, of course, be the easy and cheap way. I'll work on that a bit this morning.
Last night Angie asked me if I wanted to work on the sides for the play. I said no. I told her I didn't like pouring over a side before an audition. I prefer to read it a couple of times, get a sense of it, and see what kind of instincts emerge during the actual reading and go with those. She gave me an odd look. But that's how I've always felt. So often I've been in auditions, most notably back in my NY days, when I've looked around a room and watched all the actors silently mouthing the words to the side and living in their own little world, making choices right before they go in to read for the part. I've always thought that a little too staid for my taste. There's a spontaneous thing that happens when one doesn't do that, I think. The people behind the table, having seen the same scene a thousand times already, pick up on it, too.
Once, years ago, right after I had moved to NYC, I improbably got a chance to read for the late, great Joe Papp for something in the park. Or maybe it was The Public. I don't really remember. But anyway, I didn't have a snowball's chance in Hell of actually getting it. But just to be seen by the legendary man was pretty cool. Anyway, it was an Ibsen piece, as I recall. We were paired up, male/female, to read a scene. I was asked to do the scene with another actress there, a young actress, with clearly even less of a chance than I had of getting the role. She came over to me and asked if I wanted to run through the scene a few times. She had big hair and a really pronounced Jersey accent. I politely said, no, I didn't like to plan a scene out ahead of time. Let's just read it and see what happens. Go with our gut, I said.
So we wait for our names to be called and finally go in. I'm nervous. Reading in front of the great Joseph Papp. Wow. I think I was about 24 at the time.
She has the first line and it goes like this: "Poor Richard, shut up in that monastery all winter long." We each turn to the table, say our names, nod quietly to each other to indicate we're ready, and start the scene. She says: "Poor Richard." Long pause. Looks off into the wings. "SHUT UP IN THAT MONASTERY ALL WINTER LONG!" I was stunned. Speechless. And then I heard a sort of snorting and gasping from the table and looked over to see the great Joe Papp with his head buried in his hands, laughing uncontrollably. And that was it. My big chance to be seen by the great man. At the time I was horrified. Today, of course, I think it's pretty funny. Wonder where she is today?
Anyway...
I'll read through it a couple of times, print it out, try and get an image in my mind that will help, and see what happens. Right now I'm leaning toward Albert Finney's amazing performance in "Under the Volcano." Truly one of the great alcoholic performances of all time. Not out and out funny, just sort of befuddled and foggy from all the drink. Later in the movie, of course, it's tragic. But early on he's dead on.
And there you have it. Just a quick insight into what may or may not work with all this audition stuff. Sometimes I'm way off track with this approach. Sometimes it's exactly right. All auditions are a bit of a crap shoot anyway, so one has to start somewhere. Impossible to know what they're looking for. The important thing is to make SOME kind of choice, any choice, really, and commit to it. That's really the best one can hope for.
Tomorrow I've got a reading for an industrial to be shot in Virginia next month, a ridiculous amount of money, travel, stipend, lodging all provided, of course. And Sunday a short read for a feature film. An audition every day. I hope this keeps up. As Angie reminds me all the time, it's a numbers game. Eventually, I'll be what someone is looking for. I hope so, anyway. The good thing is, the agents keep sending me out.
See you tomorrow.
A couple of things regarding all this.
First, the role I'm up for in "Garbo Talks" has a Swedish accent. Now, I've always had a pretty good ear. That is to say, dialects and accents have always come fairly easily to me. Some easier than others. God knows I've done a ton over the years. Scottish, for some odd reason, has always been tough for me. Australian, too. Don't know why. Scottish always ends up sounding like Mr. Scott from Star Trek and Australian always drifts toward Cockney if I'm not careful. The sides for Garbo say very clearly, "MUST have Swedish accent." Hm. Okay.
I must confess, I've never attempted a legit Swedish accent before. Just playing around with it from time to time has always produced something akin to The Swedish Chef on The Muppets. That'll never do, of course. I've read over the sides and clearly the script is, if not exactly naturalistic, certainly realistic. So next I decided to scout around on U Tube for something. I found several clips that might help. One was an extended clip of a guy, a ranger of sorts, talking to a group of rafters...he's a real Swede with an actual Swedish accent. I watched it a few times and something clicked in my brain. And then I realized what it was...the guy sounds exactly like Merryl Streep in Out of Africa. Of course, in that movie Streep is playing a Dane. Nonetheless, there it was. Unfortunately, I don't know any real Swedes so my only recourse is to rent Out of Africa and listen to Streep over and over. Not the best of solutions but better than nothing. Apparently the Danish accent and the Swedish accent are similar enough to help me out here. So today, I Netflix Out of Africa.
The next thing I did to prepare for "Bell, Book and Candle" today was to google all the reviews I could find of various productions of the piece around the country. This is always helpful to me, especially if I don't know the play, which is the case this time. I found a whole bunch of notices for the play from as far away as Dublin to a community theatre production in a small town in Texas ("The performances were really good. The set was really good. The direction was really good."). The role I'm being considered for is Redlitch...the "alcoholic writer" who originally suspects the main character of being a witch, apparently. The press packet for some of the productions say the television show "Bewitched" was loosely inspired by the play. Don't know if that's true or not, but it sounds about right. What I did find out from reading all of the different reviews is that Redlitch is clearly the comic foil of the piece. Obviously a scene-stealing role. Good. I have the sides to the play already and now I just have to figure out a way to do it as an alcoholic and not a drunk. Big difference, I think. I don't think the playwright had a Foster Brooks kind of thing in mind. That would, of course, be the easy and cheap way. I'll work on that a bit this morning.
Last night Angie asked me if I wanted to work on the sides for the play. I said no. I told her I didn't like pouring over a side before an audition. I prefer to read it a couple of times, get a sense of it, and see what kind of instincts emerge during the actual reading and go with those. She gave me an odd look. But that's how I've always felt. So often I've been in auditions, most notably back in my NY days, when I've looked around a room and watched all the actors silently mouthing the words to the side and living in their own little world, making choices right before they go in to read for the part. I've always thought that a little too staid for my taste. There's a spontaneous thing that happens when one doesn't do that, I think. The people behind the table, having seen the same scene a thousand times already, pick up on it, too.
Once, years ago, right after I had moved to NYC, I improbably got a chance to read for the late, great Joe Papp for something in the park. Or maybe it was The Public. I don't really remember. But anyway, I didn't have a snowball's chance in Hell of actually getting it. But just to be seen by the legendary man was pretty cool. Anyway, it was an Ibsen piece, as I recall. We were paired up, male/female, to read a scene. I was asked to do the scene with another actress there, a young actress, with clearly even less of a chance than I had of getting the role. She came over to me and asked if I wanted to run through the scene a few times. She had big hair and a really pronounced Jersey accent. I politely said, no, I didn't like to plan a scene out ahead of time. Let's just read it and see what happens. Go with our gut, I said.
So we wait for our names to be called and finally go in. I'm nervous. Reading in front of the great Joseph Papp. Wow. I think I was about 24 at the time.
She has the first line and it goes like this: "Poor Richard, shut up in that monastery all winter long." We each turn to the table, say our names, nod quietly to each other to indicate we're ready, and start the scene. She says: "Poor Richard." Long pause. Looks off into the wings. "SHUT UP IN THAT MONASTERY ALL WINTER LONG!" I was stunned. Speechless. And then I heard a sort of snorting and gasping from the table and looked over to see the great Joe Papp with his head buried in his hands, laughing uncontrollably. And that was it. My big chance to be seen by the great man. At the time I was horrified. Today, of course, I think it's pretty funny. Wonder where she is today?
Anyway...
I'll read through it a couple of times, print it out, try and get an image in my mind that will help, and see what happens. Right now I'm leaning toward Albert Finney's amazing performance in "Under the Volcano." Truly one of the great alcoholic performances of all time. Not out and out funny, just sort of befuddled and foggy from all the drink. Later in the movie, of course, it's tragic. But early on he's dead on.
And there you have it. Just a quick insight into what may or may not work with all this audition stuff. Sometimes I'm way off track with this approach. Sometimes it's exactly right. All auditions are a bit of a crap shoot anyway, so one has to start somewhere. Impossible to know what they're looking for. The important thing is to make SOME kind of choice, any choice, really, and commit to it. That's really the best one can hope for.
Tomorrow I've got a reading for an industrial to be shot in Virginia next month, a ridiculous amount of money, travel, stipend, lodging all provided, of course. And Sunday a short read for a feature film. An audition every day. I hope this keeps up. As Angie reminds me all the time, it's a numbers game. Eventually, I'll be what someone is looking for. I hope so, anyway. The good thing is, the agents keep sending me out.
See you tomorrow.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Pleasant Valley Weekdays...
Auditioned yesterday for a new musical based loosely on the film "Garbo Talks." I think it went well even though I completely screwed up the lyrics to not one but both songs. The actual singing part of the audition went quite well. The guys behind the table could not have been nicer. And, although it's impossible to tell what's really going on, I think I'll get a call back. It's not a super contract in terms of AEA, but it's a nice way to get seen by perhaps the most influential stage casting director in LA, Michael Donovan. In fact, the audition itself was held in his offices and Michael was there yesterday.
What's more important, though, is that I had fun. Angie dressed me, of course. Left to my own devices I'd wear shorts and wife beaters to every audition. She had me in new linen pants and jacket, vaguely reminiscent of Don Johnson in Miami Vice. Although in my case it was vaguely reminiscent of Ed Asner had he done Miami Vice.
I got there early and was the first to go in. I sang my two ditties and was asked to change them a bit. I did. This was, of course, the old "can he follow directions" bit.
Upon returning to the house I got another call from my agent setting up another audition for Bell, Book and Candle, an old gemstone from the fifties, at The Colony. Again, not a very good contract, but only a few minutes from my house. Plus The Colony is a beautiful theatre. Angie and I saw Jimmy Barbour's Christmas Concert in that theatre back in December of last year. Impressive space.
Saturday, I'm reading for a pilot called "Westwood." Network consideration. The role is a "bad ass lawyer with a good heart." Okay. The auditions are downtown Los Angeles and it's a long shot at best, but worth a try. It'll be my first "pilot" audition.
So things are definitely starting to heat up for me. I'm pleased about that, naturally. My nature is to be suspicious at all the good things happening in my life, but Angie is teaching me, slowly, ever so slowly, that we deserve good things in our life.
The heat in Southern California has been inhuman. Today, and this is no misprint, the temps are supposed to top out at 108. That's BEFORE the heat index is added in to the equation. Global warming a myth? Hm.
Meeting my old buddy, Johnny Bader, for breakfast today. We're at odds over this silly "community center" scheduled to be built in lower Manhattan. I think it's a travesty. He thinks it's just dandy. Not that anyone cares what EITHER of us think. I'm against it in principle. I believe fervently in religious freedom in this country, as manhandled as that has been over the past 250 years. But I think a Muslim center mere footsteps from Ground Zero is unacceptable. I think if it happens it should be a trade-off. Let this country build a Southern Baptist Church next to the royal palace in Saudi Arabia and we'll stop whining about the mosque. Even Steven.
Okay, enough about that.
The "Dream House" is still on the market. Angie and I have our fingers firmly crossed. We keep wandering over there (it's only about five minutes from our current house) to look at it. I've never had a "feeling" so strong in my life. We are meant to be in that house. I don't know how or when, but that's the way I feel. In fact, I wouldn't even mind a Muslim "community center" next door if it meant getting into that house. Of course, we'd have to come to some agreement about all the caterwalling at sunrise, but I'm sure something could be worked out.
See you tomorrow.
What's more important, though, is that I had fun. Angie dressed me, of course. Left to my own devices I'd wear shorts and wife beaters to every audition. She had me in new linen pants and jacket, vaguely reminiscent of Don Johnson in Miami Vice. Although in my case it was vaguely reminiscent of Ed Asner had he done Miami Vice.
I got there early and was the first to go in. I sang my two ditties and was asked to change them a bit. I did. This was, of course, the old "can he follow directions" bit.
Upon returning to the house I got another call from my agent setting up another audition for Bell, Book and Candle, an old gemstone from the fifties, at The Colony. Again, not a very good contract, but only a few minutes from my house. Plus The Colony is a beautiful theatre. Angie and I saw Jimmy Barbour's Christmas Concert in that theatre back in December of last year. Impressive space.
Saturday, I'm reading for a pilot called "Westwood." Network consideration. The role is a "bad ass lawyer with a good heart." Okay. The auditions are downtown Los Angeles and it's a long shot at best, but worth a try. It'll be my first "pilot" audition.
So things are definitely starting to heat up for me. I'm pleased about that, naturally. My nature is to be suspicious at all the good things happening in my life, but Angie is teaching me, slowly, ever so slowly, that we deserve good things in our life.
The heat in Southern California has been inhuman. Today, and this is no misprint, the temps are supposed to top out at 108. That's BEFORE the heat index is added in to the equation. Global warming a myth? Hm.
Meeting my old buddy, Johnny Bader, for breakfast today. We're at odds over this silly "community center" scheduled to be built in lower Manhattan. I think it's a travesty. He thinks it's just dandy. Not that anyone cares what EITHER of us think. I'm against it in principle. I believe fervently in religious freedom in this country, as manhandled as that has been over the past 250 years. But I think a Muslim center mere footsteps from Ground Zero is unacceptable. I think if it happens it should be a trade-off. Let this country build a Southern Baptist Church next to the royal palace in Saudi Arabia and we'll stop whining about the mosque. Even Steven.
Okay, enough about that.
The "Dream House" is still on the market. Angie and I have our fingers firmly crossed. We keep wandering over there (it's only about five minutes from our current house) to look at it. I've never had a "feeling" so strong in my life. We are meant to be in that house. I don't know how or when, but that's the way I feel. In fact, I wouldn't even mind a Muslim "community center" next door if it meant getting into that house. Of course, we'd have to come to some agreement about all the caterwalling at sunrise, but I'm sure something could be worked out.
See you tomorrow.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
"You're under arrest, Kangaroo Boy!"
Yesterday I had an audition that embarrassed me. I don't like being embarrassed at auditions. Makes me feel dirty, somehow. The audition was at Paramount Studios, which in itself was actually pretty cool. Paramount is a massive lot, God knows how long it has been there, in Hollywood. About a half hour drive from my house. I arrived at the front gate, presented my I.D. and my reason for being there and the guard gave me a pass. The pass was actually a map with my name printed at the top and a "You are here" kind of thing on it. I kept it, of course, because it says "Paramount Pictures" at the top and "Welcome Clif Morts." Cool looking pass. So I walk through the streets of Paramount to my audition site (the place is really like a small town with names like 'Third Street' and 'Second Street' all over) and sign in. It's the big time as auditions go. A food table set up, drinks, tea, coffee, etc. All I really know is that I'm reading for a "renegade cop" on a new cable show tentatively called "Extreme Force."
The auditions appeared to be pretty much on time and only a few actors were there with me. When I was called in it was the usual camera set-up ('please say your name, age, and any background you have as a cop'). I told them I was not a cop, had never been a cop, but I had played one in NY in a play called Detective Story some years back. The casting director, a girl of about twenty one or so, said, "What did you play in Detective Story?" I said, "Um, well, a detective." "Oh, " she said.
These days there's a peculiar trend happening out here in Hollywood. If the producer has a role for a lion tamer, they actually want to see lion tamers read for the role. It's kind of mind-boggling. Cops and lion tamers aren't very good actors, generally speaking, so it's kind of self-defeating. Nonetheless, one sees it all the time in the breakdowns. "Casting a world-famous brain surgeon. Prefer actual world-famous brain surgeons for the role." Good Lord.
So she turned off the camera and said, "We're going to do an improv." My heart sank. I hate improv auditions. Improv is a young man's game. I have done it a lot throughout my career, but never really liked it. I'm not bad at it, really, just not my cup of tea as far as performing goes. When I first moved to NYC I was involved with a company that performed at midnight on the weekends in The East Village called Shock of the Funny. We were a pretty successful group and nearly always sold out. Did that for a couple years, in fact. Mostly because it was fun, also to earn an extra couple hundred bucks here and there. But like I said, I never considered myself an improv guy. It was just a fun thing to do.
Well, this improv turned out to be, not surprisingly, an arrest. I, as the "renegade cop" was to arrest a guy for selling me drugs (this had absolutely nothing to do with the role I was auditioning for, but there you have it). So they bring in a young guy, Australian accent, and turn the camera on. He asks to buy some drugs, I hand it to him, he gives me money, starts to walk away, I pull out my wallet, show him my badge, politely but firmly turn him around, pretend to 'cuff' him, and tell him there are about ten other cops surrounding him at the moment, then I start Mirandizing him.
She turned off the camera. I could tell she was already exasperated with me.
Her: You didn't get rough with him.
Me: Rough?
Her: You were the politest cop I've ever seen. You didn't even raise your voice. I hope if I ever get arrested it's by a cop like you.
Me: Really? Thanks.
Her: That's not a good thing.
Me: It's not?
Her: You have to really get rough with him.
Me: Well, it's an improv in a small room. You want me to tackle him?
Her: No, don't tackle him. (The young Australian guy at this point says, "No, No. No need to tackle.") Just get a little rough. You didn't even really arrest him.
Me: Well, I was gonna let my back up do that.
Her: What back up?
Me: The other cops. The ones just out sight.
Her: There are no other cops.
Me: I wouldn't go into this situation without back up.
Her: This time you did.
Me: That's not good police work.
Her: You're a renegade.
Me: So don't tell him he's surrounded by other cops?
Her: No. We can't afford other cops.
Me: Oh. So it's just me.
Her: Yes. Just you. You and your gun and your handcuffs.
Me: Okay. So no back up. What if he's got friends around? What if they've got guns?
Her: He has no friends.
Me: He doesn't?
Her: No.
Me: Poor guy.
Her: He's just a crack head in the park.
Me: I see.
So we did it again. And again. And once more for luck. Me improvising a whole little world I'd made up in my head. Arresting this poor Australian guy they pulled in from the hallway for this improv. I had to call him names. Part of me getting 'rough' with him. "My little kangaroo boy," was one. "Koala bitch" was another. "Crack sniffing aborigine" was one of the more original ones. He always looked mildly shocked as I arrested him with yet another stinging Australian barb.
So that was it. Finished up. Walked back through the studio to the car. Feeling a little dumb. I remember thinking about Brando's quote. In the early sixties he was asked why he held acting in such low regard. He said it wasn't a proper occupation for a grown man. Strolling back to my car yesterday I knew exactly what he was talking about.
Today I'm auditioning for a new musical based on the film, "Garbo Talks." All they want is sixteen bars of a ballad and sixteen bars of an uptempo. This I can do. This I feel comfortable with. This won't make me feel like a lonely kid play-acting on the car port in the middle of summer. This is something I can connect to.
What a silly business.
See you tomorrow.
The auditions appeared to be pretty much on time and only a few actors were there with me. When I was called in it was the usual camera set-up ('please say your name, age, and any background you have as a cop'). I told them I was not a cop, had never been a cop, but I had played one in NY in a play called Detective Story some years back. The casting director, a girl of about twenty one or so, said, "What did you play in Detective Story?" I said, "Um, well, a detective." "Oh, " she said.
These days there's a peculiar trend happening out here in Hollywood. If the producer has a role for a lion tamer, they actually want to see lion tamers read for the role. It's kind of mind-boggling. Cops and lion tamers aren't very good actors, generally speaking, so it's kind of self-defeating. Nonetheless, one sees it all the time in the breakdowns. "Casting a world-famous brain surgeon. Prefer actual world-famous brain surgeons for the role." Good Lord.
So she turned off the camera and said, "We're going to do an improv." My heart sank. I hate improv auditions. Improv is a young man's game. I have done it a lot throughout my career, but never really liked it. I'm not bad at it, really, just not my cup of tea as far as performing goes. When I first moved to NYC I was involved with a company that performed at midnight on the weekends in The East Village called Shock of the Funny. We were a pretty successful group and nearly always sold out. Did that for a couple years, in fact. Mostly because it was fun, also to earn an extra couple hundred bucks here and there. But like I said, I never considered myself an improv guy. It was just a fun thing to do.
Well, this improv turned out to be, not surprisingly, an arrest. I, as the "renegade cop" was to arrest a guy for selling me drugs (this had absolutely nothing to do with the role I was auditioning for, but there you have it). So they bring in a young guy, Australian accent, and turn the camera on. He asks to buy some drugs, I hand it to him, he gives me money, starts to walk away, I pull out my wallet, show him my badge, politely but firmly turn him around, pretend to 'cuff' him, and tell him there are about ten other cops surrounding him at the moment, then I start Mirandizing him.
She turned off the camera. I could tell she was already exasperated with me.
Her: You didn't get rough with him.
Me: Rough?
Her: You were the politest cop I've ever seen. You didn't even raise your voice. I hope if I ever get arrested it's by a cop like you.
Me: Really? Thanks.
Her: That's not a good thing.
Me: It's not?
Her: You have to really get rough with him.
Me: Well, it's an improv in a small room. You want me to tackle him?
Her: No, don't tackle him. (The young Australian guy at this point says, "No, No. No need to tackle.") Just get a little rough. You didn't even really arrest him.
Me: Well, I was gonna let my back up do that.
Her: What back up?
Me: The other cops. The ones just out sight.
Her: There are no other cops.
Me: I wouldn't go into this situation without back up.
Her: This time you did.
Me: That's not good police work.
Her: You're a renegade.
Me: So don't tell him he's surrounded by other cops?
Her: No. We can't afford other cops.
Me: Oh. So it's just me.
Her: Yes. Just you. You and your gun and your handcuffs.
Me: Okay. So no back up. What if he's got friends around? What if they've got guns?
Her: He has no friends.
Me: He doesn't?
Her: No.
Me: Poor guy.
Her: He's just a crack head in the park.
Me: I see.
So we did it again. And again. And once more for luck. Me improvising a whole little world I'd made up in my head. Arresting this poor Australian guy they pulled in from the hallway for this improv. I had to call him names. Part of me getting 'rough' with him. "My little kangaroo boy," was one. "Koala bitch" was another. "Crack sniffing aborigine" was one of the more original ones. He always looked mildly shocked as I arrested him with yet another stinging Australian barb.
So that was it. Finished up. Walked back through the studio to the car. Feeling a little dumb. I remember thinking about Brando's quote. In the early sixties he was asked why he held acting in such low regard. He said it wasn't a proper occupation for a grown man. Strolling back to my car yesterday I knew exactly what he was talking about.
Today I'm auditioning for a new musical based on the film, "Garbo Talks." All they want is sixteen bars of a ballad and sixteen bars of an uptempo. This I can do. This I feel comfortable with. This won't make me feel like a lonely kid play-acting on the car port in the middle of summer. This is something I can connect to.
What a silly business.
See you tomorrow.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Springfield, Part III
We picked up the karaoke machine Friday while we were out and about in Springfield. We hooked it up on Saturday a few hours before the festivities started. It hooked directly into the TV so there were no extra speakers to run it to. Mistake. After the party got cranking a bit (there were about 65 people there) the TV speakers weren't loud enough for it. In addition, there was constant feedback regardless where one stood with the mike. So after attempting a dozen or so songs we simply shut it down. A complete waste of several hundred bucks. Oh, well. The party was in high gear anyway and the karaoke was simply an interesting diversion.
Rex and Angie's brother, Mike, tended bar all night and doled out the wine, beer and occasional mixed drink. Angie and I circulated as much as we could trying to catch up with everybody. It was difficult to stay too long in one place because we needed to wander about and make sure everyone was happy. Long about eleven a lot of the family and older folk were calling it a night and only the die-hard SMSUers were still there. We all gathered around a couple of tables on the downstairs patio of Chateau Del Lago and told old stories. The temperatures, even at that time of night, were still in the low nineties.
I hadn't really had a chance to eat anything all night and finally settled down with a massive plate of cocktail weenies in bbq sauce (my favorite anyway) that Ken, Angie's dad, had brought. It was an interesting conversation that ensued. Of course, we're all nearing fifty now and most of us are sort of upstanding citizens now, for the most part, so I was amused to see the conversation drift toward old stories of being arrested. There were quite a few. Nothing serious, of course, just mostly hi-jinx stories of when we were young.
By one in the morning, people began to drift out. Angie and I were exhausted. The party had clearly been a great success and I think, I hope anyway, everyone had a good time.
We collapsed into bed and woke really late on Sunday...for us that means around eight. We're early risers so sleeping that late was really something for us.
The next two days involved eating out (including some famous cashew chicken, which, inexplicably, Springfield has become known for) and a trip over to Ken and Wanda's for some huge, grilled burgers. Actually, the following morning we travelled over to Mexican Villa, a spot that was there even when we were in college, and met up with a crew of SMSUers for a late brunch. The waitress, who seemed a tad nonplussed with such a loud group of twenty or so, clearly wanted to be somewhere else. Nonetheless, a good time was had by all.
Sunday night we took Tammy and Angie's daughter, Lauren, back to the airport and they flew back to LA before us. On the airport road we encountered, oddly, two runaway pigs in the road. Not something one sees very often in LA, but apparently not out of the ordinary in Springfield. People just casually swerved around them as though this were just another two escaped pigs. No one seemed to think it odd except Angie and I. After we dropped Tammy and Lauren off and were on our way out the pigs were being arrested and read their rights.
And so it was.
It could not have been a better mini-vacation and engagement party. All had gone as planned (with the exception of the karaoke debacle) and Angie was pleased and, of course, when Angie is pleased, I am pleased.
So now we're back in LA...auditions are commencing as usual. Had an odd one a couple days ago. I was called in to read for a feature film and upon entering realized that everyone in the room was about three hundred pounds. And me. So as they all walked into the room to be shot on camera I could hear them yelling and being as bombastic as possible. I decided I couldn't compete with that and so when my time arrived I did the whole thing like I thought the wonderful old character actor, Dabney Coleman, might have done it. I don't think I was what they were looking for.
Tuesday I have a big audition for a new musical here in LA that has the possibility of going to NY. It's a musical version of the film, Garbo Talks, and is being cast by a high-profile casting director here in town that hasn't seen me yet. So today I'm heading over to my great buddy, Jim Barbour's place, to look through some of his music and get some pointers on the audition.
We picked John Bader up at the airport last night and had him over for grilled steaks. He was back from several weeks in Iowa.
And now, life back to a semblance of normalcy. We took a tour of our dream house a couple of days ago. Our fingers are firmly crossed for that.
Franny and Zooey are parked at my feet as I write this early on a Sunday morning. Hard to believe just a week ago we were at Chateau Del Lago in Old Springfield. Angie asked me this week if I would consider retiring there someday. It's a good question. I thought about it a lot.
And I decided that yes, I would.
See you tomorrow.
Rex and Angie's brother, Mike, tended bar all night and doled out the wine, beer and occasional mixed drink. Angie and I circulated as much as we could trying to catch up with everybody. It was difficult to stay too long in one place because we needed to wander about and make sure everyone was happy. Long about eleven a lot of the family and older folk were calling it a night and only the die-hard SMSUers were still there. We all gathered around a couple of tables on the downstairs patio of Chateau Del Lago and told old stories. The temperatures, even at that time of night, were still in the low nineties.
I hadn't really had a chance to eat anything all night and finally settled down with a massive plate of cocktail weenies in bbq sauce (my favorite anyway) that Ken, Angie's dad, had brought. It was an interesting conversation that ensued. Of course, we're all nearing fifty now and most of us are sort of upstanding citizens now, for the most part, so I was amused to see the conversation drift toward old stories of being arrested. There were quite a few. Nothing serious, of course, just mostly hi-jinx stories of when we were young.
By one in the morning, people began to drift out. Angie and I were exhausted. The party had clearly been a great success and I think, I hope anyway, everyone had a good time.
We collapsed into bed and woke really late on Sunday...for us that means around eight. We're early risers so sleeping that late was really something for us.
The next two days involved eating out (including some famous cashew chicken, which, inexplicably, Springfield has become known for) and a trip over to Ken and Wanda's for some huge, grilled burgers. Actually, the following morning we travelled over to Mexican Villa, a spot that was there even when we were in college, and met up with a crew of SMSUers for a late brunch. The waitress, who seemed a tad nonplussed with such a loud group of twenty or so, clearly wanted to be somewhere else. Nonetheless, a good time was had by all.
Sunday night we took Tammy and Angie's daughter, Lauren, back to the airport and they flew back to LA before us. On the airport road we encountered, oddly, two runaway pigs in the road. Not something one sees very often in LA, but apparently not out of the ordinary in Springfield. People just casually swerved around them as though this were just another two escaped pigs. No one seemed to think it odd except Angie and I. After we dropped Tammy and Lauren off and were on our way out the pigs were being arrested and read their rights.
And so it was.
It could not have been a better mini-vacation and engagement party. All had gone as planned (with the exception of the karaoke debacle) and Angie was pleased and, of course, when Angie is pleased, I am pleased.
So now we're back in LA...auditions are commencing as usual. Had an odd one a couple days ago. I was called in to read for a feature film and upon entering realized that everyone in the room was about three hundred pounds. And me. So as they all walked into the room to be shot on camera I could hear them yelling and being as bombastic as possible. I decided I couldn't compete with that and so when my time arrived I did the whole thing like I thought the wonderful old character actor, Dabney Coleman, might have done it. I don't think I was what they were looking for.
Tuesday I have a big audition for a new musical here in LA that has the possibility of going to NY. It's a musical version of the film, Garbo Talks, and is being cast by a high-profile casting director here in town that hasn't seen me yet. So today I'm heading over to my great buddy, Jim Barbour's place, to look through some of his music and get some pointers on the audition.
We picked John Bader up at the airport last night and had him over for grilled steaks. He was back from several weeks in Iowa.
And now, life back to a semblance of normalcy. We took a tour of our dream house a couple of days ago. Our fingers are firmly crossed for that.
Franny and Zooey are parked at my feet as I write this early on a Sunday morning. Hard to believe just a week ago we were at Chateau Del Lago in Old Springfield. Angie asked me this week if I would consider retiring there someday. It's a good question. I thought about it a lot.
And I decided that yes, I would.
See you tomorrow.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Springfield, Part II
Saturday was, if humanly possible, even hotter than Friday in Ol' Springfield. Angie and I sat on the bottom patio in Loch House and drank our coffee early in the morning, as is our habit, and by 8:00am were both trickling sweat. The golfers were still strolling by with groups of gasping and panting and sweating onlookers following them. I noticed all around the club, in fact, they had these little signs that said "golfer crossing." At first, quick glance I thought they said "gopher crossing" and was a bit surprised that Springfield should have gotten so benign toward it's gophers.
Fortunately, the Loch House had air conditioning pumping throughout (which must have been like air conditioning an aircraft carrier) so we could always just step in and cool off for a few seconds.
I knew the girls would be coming over soon to commandeer the kitchen. My best man at the wedding and lifelong friend, Johnny Bader, was driving down from Iowa (he lives in LA, too, but was in Iowa to visit his family and, in particular, his mom, who is in delicate health) so the two of us planned to just scoot around Springfield a bit during the preparations and see what there was to see. John is about my age and has had the career anyone in the business would kill to have...we got our Equity cards together at The Old Creamery Theatre in 1985 and then both moved to NYC. He did a lot of stage work in NY with a lot of prestigious theaters and then moved to LA about twelve years ago. He got a tremendous break early on out here and did a season of The Practice, the David Kelly show that preceded Boston Legal. He also got a great commercial agent right after moving here and has done about fifty national commercials. He's made a good living. John also directed my first play in NY, Changing it to Brando. Brilliantly, I might add. John is not, by his own admission, a director, but he's nonetheless very good at it. In fact, he was my first choice to direct Praying Small here in LA, but he turned me down saying, "I appreciate the offer, but, you know, I just don't ENJOY that sort of thing." I liked that response very much.
So off we went to see my old alma mater, SMSU (now called Missouri State...you know you're getting old when the name of your college has changed). The area around the theatre department was exactly the same (with the exception of a god-awful, modern statue that looks like a giant, silver satellite dish parked right outside the theatre itself) as I remembered it. No one was on campus and the place was locked up so I decided to check the one door that was always unlocked back in my day...lo' and behold, it was still unlocked. So we walked around Craig Hall and I gave John a running commentary on the place. Must've bored him to tears but I was neck-deep in nostalgia.
We stopped and had lunch at an old haunt of mine called Ebbets Field, a pub near the campus. I told the waitress I had been there the night they opened the place in 1981. She looked at me, quite rightly, as though I were a thousand years old. She glanced around for the oxygen tank.
The day before Angie and I had driven downtown to take a look at Lander's Theatre where I did a number of plays long ago. What an extraordinary facility that place has become. A 570 seat theatre in a building that had been built in 1909...a former Vaudeville House, in fact. The place has been gutted and is now a state of the art plant. I commented to Angie and her friend, Beth Domann, who is the Artistic Director there, how amazing the place would be if it could be airlifted, intact, to NY or Chicago or LA. I hope Springfield realizes what an extraordinary theater they have there.
Anyway, we returned to Loch House to find a gaggle of beautiful women busily creating a whole slew of foodstuffs. John commented later he had never seen so many "cougars" in one place at one time. They were obviously having a wonderful time and John and I sat and chatted with everyone for awhile. Tammy Lipps, also a former SMSUer, has since become a highly sought-after catering force here in the LA area, and she was spearheading the arrangements for the party. She is an incredibly nice and smart woman, not to mention talented, and one of Angie's best friends and also her Bridesmaid. Tammy and I never met in college because she literally came a week after I left. All she knew of me were the myriad stories, some not too flattering, I'm sure. I tended to be a tad controversial back then. I suppose I still am, in some ways. A character flaw, to be sure.
Anyway, John eventually left to shower again (we were all showering a couple of times a day because of the heat) and rest up before the 'event.' Carolea Love (now Clingan), Debbie Doll, Diane Chambers-Stewart, Mary Wilson-Klumpp, Glenna Norris, Sharon Kessler-Chalmers and Rosemary and Tammy were all there helping out. What a great group of people and all close friends of Angie's. Unlike myself, Angie has maintained a whole bunch of close friends from those days. She's that way. Once Angie befriends someone, that's it. Friends for life. Me...not so much. I tend to lose contact and simply move on to the next thing. One of the thousands of things I admire about her.
Before John left we set up the karaoke machine and tried it out. I knew instantly it wouldn't be loud enough. But it was all we had so we decided to give it a shot that night. In hindsight, I should have simply turned the damned thing off.
Long around six thirty the Peabody/Lewis/Jarrett clans started showing up. So many new relatives it will most likely take me about a decade to learn all the names.
Angie's family and her extended family are very close. It's all completely new to me, this family stuff. They all seem to actually like each other in addition to being family. They're all funny and smiling people that adore Angela. I come from a family of heavy drinkers who barely tolerated each other so this new breed of family sort of befuddles me. Rosemary and I stood at the front door of Loch House and greeted people as they arrived. Of the thousand or so Peabody/Lewis/Jarrett folk that came in, I think I actually remember about five of the names. Fortunately, there wasn't a quiz at the end of the evening. Angie's Dad, Ken, and his wife, Wanda, two of the nicest people on the planet, came in, along with Angie's brother, Mike and his wife and kids. Ken and Wanda simply radiate kindness. In hindsight, it's easy to see how Angie turned out so normal and accepting as a grown-up...if her dad, Ken, and her stepmom, Wanda, and her brother Mike are any indication, I think it would be nigh on impossible NOT to turn out normal, accepting and kind. As they used to say in my backwards little hometown, they're 'good peoples.'
The ex-SMSUers arrived fashionably late, of course. Most I hadn't seen in 26 years. Everyone looked great. Bob Bradley arrived with his partner, Lou Shaeffer, and astonishingly hadn't seemed to have aged more than a couple of years. Bob, I'm convinced, has a Dorian Grey deal going on. Glenn Sneed arrived with Derrick Jarvis, two very funny and talented guys that kept things lively wherever they drifted to throughout the evening. Chris Coaley showed up with his partner and the ageless Cheryl Miller (Cheryl was the dance guru in our old SMSU days), and also looked great. Chris was always the best-looking guy in the theatre department, and still is. Another Dorian Grey thing happening there.
And so the party started to crank up...
More on that tomorrow.
Fortunately, the Loch House had air conditioning pumping throughout (which must have been like air conditioning an aircraft carrier) so we could always just step in and cool off for a few seconds.
I knew the girls would be coming over soon to commandeer the kitchen. My best man at the wedding and lifelong friend, Johnny Bader, was driving down from Iowa (he lives in LA, too, but was in Iowa to visit his family and, in particular, his mom, who is in delicate health) so the two of us planned to just scoot around Springfield a bit during the preparations and see what there was to see. John is about my age and has had the career anyone in the business would kill to have...we got our Equity cards together at The Old Creamery Theatre in 1985 and then both moved to NYC. He did a lot of stage work in NY with a lot of prestigious theaters and then moved to LA about twelve years ago. He got a tremendous break early on out here and did a season of The Practice, the David Kelly show that preceded Boston Legal. He also got a great commercial agent right after moving here and has done about fifty national commercials. He's made a good living. John also directed my first play in NY, Changing it to Brando. Brilliantly, I might add. John is not, by his own admission, a director, but he's nonetheless very good at it. In fact, he was my first choice to direct Praying Small here in LA, but he turned me down saying, "I appreciate the offer, but, you know, I just don't ENJOY that sort of thing." I liked that response very much.
So off we went to see my old alma mater, SMSU (now called Missouri State...you know you're getting old when the name of your college has changed). The area around the theatre department was exactly the same (with the exception of a god-awful, modern statue that looks like a giant, silver satellite dish parked right outside the theatre itself) as I remembered it. No one was on campus and the place was locked up so I decided to check the one door that was always unlocked back in my day...lo' and behold, it was still unlocked. So we walked around Craig Hall and I gave John a running commentary on the place. Must've bored him to tears but I was neck-deep in nostalgia.
We stopped and had lunch at an old haunt of mine called Ebbets Field, a pub near the campus. I told the waitress I had been there the night they opened the place in 1981. She looked at me, quite rightly, as though I were a thousand years old. She glanced around for the oxygen tank.
The day before Angie and I had driven downtown to take a look at Lander's Theatre where I did a number of plays long ago. What an extraordinary facility that place has become. A 570 seat theatre in a building that had been built in 1909...a former Vaudeville House, in fact. The place has been gutted and is now a state of the art plant. I commented to Angie and her friend, Beth Domann, who is the Artistic Director there, how amazing the place would be if it could be airlifted, intact, to NY or Chicago or LA. I hope Springfield realizes what an extraordinary theater they have there.
Anyway, we returned to Loch House to find a gaggle of beautiful women busily creating a whole slew of foodstuffs. John commented later he had never seen so many "cougars" in one place at one time. They were obviously having a wonderful time and John and I sat and chatted with everyone for awhile. Tammy Lipps, also a former SMSUer, has since become a highly sought-after catering force here in the LA area, and she was spearheading the arrangements for the party. She is an incredibly nice and smart woman, not to mention talented, and one of Angie's best friends and also her Bridesmaid. Tammy and I never met in college because she literally came a week after I left. All she knew of me were the myriad stories, some not too flattering, I'm sure. I tended to be a tad controversial back then. I suppose I still am, in some ways. A character flaw, to be sure.
Anyway, John eventually left to shower again (we were all showering a couple of times a day because of the heat) and rest up before the 'event.' Carolea Love (now Clingan), Debbie Doll, Diane Chambers-Stewart, Mary Wilson-Klumpp, Glenna Norris, Sharon Kessler-Chalmers and Rosemary and Tammy were all there helping out. What a great group of people and all close friends of Angie's. Unlike myself, Angie has maintained a whole bunch of close friends from those days. She's that way. Once Angie befriends someone, that's it. Friends for life. Me...not so much. I tend to lose contact and simply move on to the next thing. One of the thousands of things I admire about her.
Before John left we set up the karaoke machine and tried it out. I knew instantly it wouldn't be loud enough. But it was all we had so we decided to give it a shot that night. In hindsight, I should have simply turned the damned thing off.
Long around six thirty the Peabody/Lewis/Jarrett clans started showing up. So many new relatives it will most likely take me about a decade to learn all the names.
Angie's family and her extended family are very close. It's all completely new to me, this family stuff. They all seem to actually like each other in addition to being family. They're all funny and smiling people that adore Angela. I come from a family of heavy drinkers who barely tolerated each other so this new breed of family sort of befuddles me. Rosemary and I stood at the front door of Loch House and greeted people as they arrived. Of the thousand or so Peabody/Lewis/Jarrett folk that came in, I think I actually remember about five of the names. Fortunately, there wasn't a quiz at the end of the evening. Angie's Dad, Ken, and his wife, Wanda, two of the nicest people on the planet, came in, along with Angie's brother, Mike and his wife and kids. Ken and Wanda simply radiate kindness. In hindsight, it's easy to see how Angie turned out so normal and accepting as a grown-up...if her dad, Ken, and her stepmom, Wanda, and her brother Mike are any indication, I think it would be nigh on impossible NOT to turn out normal, accepting and kind. As they used to say in my backwards little hometown, they're 'good peoples.'
The ex-SMSUers arrived fashionably late, of course. Most I hadn't seen in 26 years. Everyone looked great. Bob Bradley arrived with his partner, Lou Shaeffer, and astonishingly hadn't seemed to have aged more than a couple of years. Bob, I'm convinced, has a Dorian Grey deal going on. Glenn Sneed arrived with Derrick Jarvis, two very funny and talented guys that kept things lively wherever they drifted to throughout the evening. Chris Coaley showed up with his partner and the ageless Cheryl Miller (Cheryl was the dance guru in our old SMSU days), and also looked great. Chris was always the best-looking guy in the theatre department, and still is. Another Dorian Grey thing happening there.
And so the party started to crank up...
More on that tomorrow.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Springfield, Part One.
After a whirl-wind, last minute, packing frenzy last week, Angie and I boarded a plane and flew to Springfield, our undergrad alma mater, for our short vacation and Saturday night engagement party. Naturally, we stayed with Rex and Rosemary, Angie's mom and stepdad, in their house at the country club. Not surprisingly, the house is the stuff dreams are made of. We could probably fit our entire home into Rex and Rosemary's front room. It is an extraordinary house for extraordinary people. It is truly the kind of home one expects to see in Better Homes and Gardens. I was impressed, to say the least. And not only is the home simply amazing, Rosemary has exquisite taste, not surprisingly, and everywhere one looks in that home is like a snapshot of "the perfect home" in my mind. The truth is, the very house itself intimidated me.
In addition to it being a wonderful home, it is situated on, I believe, the eleventh hole of a beautiful golf course. Angie and I would sit on the back downstairs patio every morning and watch the golfers (and there were a lot of golfers this weekend because there was, unbeknownst to us, a PGA tournament this going on) stroll by as we had our coffee.
Rex is a retired pathologist and as smart as a whip. We both have a blazing curiosity about The Civil War (nerd that I am). Oddly, he has never read one of my favorite books on the subject, the Pulitzer Prize-winning Killer Angels. I plan to send it to him today.
So Rex and Rosemary picked us up at the new fancy-schmancy Springfield airport (gone are the pig feet in a jar and in their place one can now purchase a candy bar) and then took us to eat steaks at a great cowboy restaurant not too far away. After chowing on Flinstonian-sized beefsteaks we drove to the "house on the lake." It's one of those houses so large and beautiful it really should have a name like "Loch House" or "Tara" or "The Compound." Not only was Rex a very successful doctor throughout his career but also a savvy investor with an eye for real estate. Angie's parents, of course, are unimaginably humble and gracious and pretended not to notice how in awe I was of my surroundings.
The only drawback to the trip was the heat and humidity. Oddly, we left the usual heat-infested west coast of 70 degree weather and flew into a freakish heat-wave in Missouri. With the exception of our last day in Springfield, the heat index tipped the scale around 110 degrees while we were there. Incidentally, we flew Allegiant, which takes the concept of "no frills" flying to a new level. If you ask the stewardess a question it costs five dollars. The answer itself costs another five.
So Angela and I finally got to bed and slept like the dead after our day of traveling. We awoke to Hiroshima-like temperatures and started planning for "the party." I kind of had an idea that we would stick a keg of PBR in the middle of the room, blow up some old balloons that said, "World's Greatest Golfer" that were tucked away in the attic, put some of those celery halves with peanut butter in the middle on a folding card table and that would be it. Oh, dear God, no. Obama's inauguration party looked like a day at the bowling alley compared to the preparation that went into this thing. I loved it.
We rented a karaoke machine for the party (which ended up being a total disaster...more about that in tomorrow's blog) and began gathering food stuffs from all around town. Angie had five or six of her closest friends come in the following day to spend hours in the kitchen preparing exotic and tasty tidbits.
The temperatures soared all day Friday and we braced ourselves for Saturday and the party itself.
One amusing moment came on Friday when Rex and Rosemary decided to take us to "the club" for lunch. As I mentioned, a PGA tournament was underway the entire weekend so security was tight. We just wanted a sandwich or something. The Golf Course Clubhouse is right around the corner so we drove over and walked into the dining room. The lady in charge of keeping ne'er-do-wells away from the event stopped us at the door. She demanded to see our "passes" and our identification (our "papers" in NAZI parlance). For a moment it appeared she might attempt to tazer Rosemary. She was a deadly-serious woman, stocky with a lot of upper body strength, and I prepared to throw myself in front of her while the others made a hasty getaway. Fortunately, Rosemary produced the required documentation and we were allowed to eat a sandwich. Still, the SS lady was none-too-pleased about it and I kept a wary eye on her during lunch. Although she didn't appear to be armed, there were a lot of blunt objects around and she still had the mean look of a trained German Shepherd in her eye. It was touch and go there for a bit and I think if we had ordered desert she might have snapped.
But it all turned out okay and Angie and got to bed late and braced ourselves for the Saturday preparations.
More on that tomorrow.
In addition to it being a wonderful home, it is situated on, I believe, the eleventh hole of a beautiful golf course. Angie and I would sit on the back downstairs patio every morning and watch the golfers (and there were a lot of golfers this weekend because there was, unbeknownst to us, a PGA tournament this going on) stroll by as we had our coffee.
Rex is a retired pathologist and as smart as a whip. We both have a blazing curiosity about The Civil War (nerd that I am). Oddly, he has never read one of my favorite books on the subject, the Pulitzer Prize-winning Killer Angels. I plan to send it to him today.
So Rex and Rosemary picked us up at the new fancy-schmancy Springfield airport (gone are the pig feet in a jar and in their place one can now purchase a candy bar) and then took us to eat steaks at a great cowboy restaurant not too far away. After chowing on Flinstonian-sized beefsteaks we drove to the "house on the lake." It's one of those houses so large and beautiful it really should have a name like "Loch House" or "Tara" or "The Compound." Not only was Rex a very successful doctor throughout his career but also a savvy investor with an eye for real estate. Angie's parents, of course, are unimaginably humble and gracious and pretended not to notice how in awe I was of my surroundings.
The only drawback to the trip was the heat and humidity. Oddly, we left the usual heat-infested west coast of 70 degree weather and flew into a freakish heat-wave in Missouri. With the exception of our last day in Springfield, the heat index tipped the scale around 110 degrees while we were there. Incidentally, we flew Allegiant, which takes the concept of "no frills" flying to a new level. If you ask the stewardess a question it costs five dollars. The answer itself costs another five.
So Angela and I finally got to bed and slept like the dead after our day of traveling. We awoke to Hiroshima-like temperatures and started planning for "the party." I kind of had an idea that we would stick a keg of PBR in the middle of the room, blow up some old balloons that said, "World's Greatest Golfer" that were tucked away in the attic, put some of those celery halves with peanut butter in the middle on a folding card table and that would be it. Oh, dear God, no. Obama's inauguration party looked like a day at the bowling alley compared to the preparation that went into this thing. I loved it.
We rented a karaoke machine for the party (which ended up being a total disaster...more about that in tomorrow's blog) and began gathering food stuffs from all around town. Angie had five or six of her closest friends come in the following day to spend hours in the kitchen preparing exotic and tasty tidbits.
The temperatures soared all day Friday and we braced ourselves for Saturday and the party itself.
One amusing moment came on Friday when Rex and Rosemary decided to take us to "the club" for lunch. As I mentioned, a PGA tournament was underway the entire weekend so security was tight. We just wanted a sandwich or something. The Golf Course Clubhouse is right around the corner so we drove over and walked into the dining room. The lady in charge of keeping ne'er-do-wells away from the event stopped us at the door. She demanded to see our "passes" and our identification (our "papers" in NAZI parlance). For a moment it appeared she might attempt to tazer Rosemary. She was a deadly-serious woman, stocky with a lot of upper body strength, and I prepared to throw myself in front of her while the others made a hasty getaway. Fortunately, Rosemary produced the required documentation and we were allowed to eat a sandwich. Still, the SS lady was none-too-pleased about it and I kept a wary eye on her during lunch. Although she didn't appear to be armed, there were a lot of blunt objects around and she still had the mean look of a trained German Shepherd in her eye. It was touch and go there for a bit and I think if we had ordered desert she might have snapped.
But it all turned out okay and Angie and got to bed late and braced ourselves for the Saturday preparations.
More on that tomorrow.
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